34 us He says he must get back to Katmandu because there is a Communist proces- sion, the first such In Nepal to protest against Dalda Ghee, a government-spon- sored margarIne that, ac- cording to the IndIan Com- munIst Party, IS supposed to give people coronary throm- bosis. There is no evidence for this, but since the gov- ernment now allows the sale of Dalda Ghee it is neces- sary that "people should know the truth." All the adults are in the fields, except for a few old people draped over doorsills, sunnIng themselves. The village seems to be inhabited by children alone. They fol- low us in a procession of a hundred Into the outskirts, on our way to the temple, and laugh at our feeble at- tempts to get through thick- ets and one-man trails. Dom says we must get horses tomorrow, because they would be more sure-footed. In the evenIng there is a receptIon for Dom and me at the house of a poet. All the littérateurs of this tiny country meet us and treat us like celebrities Weare a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable, and pray that our Soho friends will not see an account of our reception in print. The beauty, the magic of Katmandu, the mystery of concubines and palatial halls, the delicate, natural people all mak.e us want to be natural too, and it is difficult to be natural when being honored. Men twice our age sit with straIght posture and read Nepalese poems in English and then wait for our judgment. But we have no offerIngs for the Nepalese gods. A terrible feeling because they do not ask for sacrifices of lambs but little tiny comments. We pity them and fee] guilty and don't know what to say. Partly it is the reading; the tone is flat, and the words are lisped and whistled. Partly it is the translation, for English is very much a second language to the translators. Partly it is the nature of the poetry-W ordsworthIan, just a little too mushy, a lIttle too much of cows thinking pathetic fallacies. We ask the rest of the poets to read their poems in Nepalese first, and some- how even the whistled words sound beautiful and are music to the ears- rhythm, intensity, power. And then the tedious English noise. Senses are if' , ,"" ., \ "" '.., .. "" \ · í .. .. 4 , ..,{ 11 ; ,<.... " t.. . -'" ..,.. -"",'" V- ," \ .JA ( ;)--) " \. 4 .q4t '*!I' , ..M.&r:;,-' .... A ......<.> ü\ fÞ ".'h ,( I) -c..,. ..,.,.,.. '" ;/ r' -,.. -- Mi ((.L111 rzg-ht. Christmas is over. You can go back to bezng your grouchy old self agazn.)) . confused. Perhaps some of them fee] it, too, for a poet starts to read three poems and stops with one. It takes a little gentle persuasion before he reads on. The man who is capable of judg- ment-a greater celebrity than we, the poet laureate of Nepal, L. P. Devkota, nicknamed Mount Everest-is not present. His absence is felt. Many peo- ple tell us about him: "He has done more for Nepal than any other man in his- tory." "He is the greatest genius we can claim." "He is the jewel of our country" "He has made most of us famous." "He has no time for small talk." "No man thinks more than he does." "His conversation is oracular. It is never vacuous but always breathes emotion, passion, and wit." W e keep our eyes fixed on the door, thinking that the poet will walk in at any time with crown and sceptre and make magic. "When will he come?" I ask. "Oh, didn't you know? He is dying. He's at Pashuparinath." "What is that?" I ask. "The greatest temple in the world." There's a mysterious custom in Ne- . pal Men must die at the side of a river. The gods are kind, for four large rivers run through Nepal, so that there is no village from which a dying man cannot be carried to his unction by the water. Pashupatinath is on the bank of one river. "Devkota allows his relatives to carry him to the Dver, but laughs at the custom. Three times they have taken him, but he won't die, and so they return him to the hospital." "How long did he stay?" Dom asks. "Two, three days each time." The picture is disturbing. Several dying men laid side by side on stretch- ers, waiting, as it were, in a queue to be received by the water. And the poets alone have the license to laugh. After their recitation, the poets force me to make a formal presentation speech about Dom. I rise to the occasion; I mean, I realize there is no point In tell- ing any private facts about Dom, for al- though they would suit the atmosphere of Soho or Chelsea, whIch Dom once likened to a warm animal, they are out of place in this fairyland of Katmandu, with its magical people and magical lan- guage. He was born, I announce, in 1938; wrote tiny poems from the age of